I thought of Sam, simultaneously wanting him there, while fearing what he’d think of me. He had her sent away.
“Hide,” the voice whispered. “Hide.”
The fog parted. A woman stepped out. I choked out a scream. She looked as though she’d just clawed her way out of the grave. She twitched, her long red hair flipping into the breeze. She put her hands out in front of her, and came closer. I gasped. My heart kicked into fluttering again. Red hair. Pale skin, black around the eyes, mouth, hands and feet. Her dress was white but muddied.
“Hide,” she said again, before falling into a spastic fit.
I went to her, falling down the deck stairs and earning a nice gash on my shin. I kicked my shoes to the side and fell to the ground.
Violently, she shook, flipping like a waterless fish. I held on to her.
“C-can you hear me?” I said. “What happened to you?”
Her lips were blue as if she couldn’t breathe, but her chest heaved and sunk and her breath smelled like cigarettes. Her hands and feet were caked in mud. On her forehead, the number 4 was written in thick black lines.
I screamed for help until my voice cracked. No one came.
“Hide,” she said again grabbing my hand. Instinctively, I glanced up scanning the fog. Was someone after her? Would something else emerge from the sea smoke to get her? And then, me? I saw nothing. She convulsed. Spit dribbled out the side of her blue mouth. Her eyes rolled back.
I screamed for help again into an empty night, my voice raw with the force. Not a soul answered. Her grasp on my hand loosened.
I left her.
I tripped up the stairs, banged on the kitchen door with no immediate response. When that didn’t work, I headed to the light. The ballroom lit up the back deck, passed the darkened room at the corner, at the other end of the building. I banged on the sliding glass doors when I couldn’t get them open. The dying party inside came to an abrupt end. Dozens of faces turned to me, screaming outside, until finally, Hugh Huntley rushed over, let me in, and obeyed my command to call an ambulance.
Clara was first to put her hand on her hip, and say, “Delilah, what is this all about? And where are your shoes? Lose them again?”
“There’s a woman,” I yelled breathlessly, “she’s in trouble. Call an ambulance.”
“Where?” Chris and Rachel rushed by me. I led them and a crowd of followers to where I’d left her. The sea smoke had drifted in and reached toward the house.
But, as if the sea smoke had swallowed her up, the woman was gone.
Chapter Seven
Moon Snail
Moon snails aren’t easy to find. These crafty mollusks bore into the sand out of sight. Despite their shyness and the images typically associated with snails, moon snails are vicious predators with insatiable appetites. They use a powerful foot to get to their prey and drill a hole into their shells. Then, an enzyme is released into the hole that liquefies the contents for the snail to suck out. It’s much easier to find a moon snail’s victim, identified by the hole in its shell, than it is to find a moon snail.
As a teenager, my mother made drilling me an annoying habit – English questions when we were studying for the AP exam, vocabulary for SATs, and everything to do with day-to-day life.
But, still. As seasoned as I was with accusatory interrogations, dealing with Detective Harlan Lewis was akin to taking an electric screwdriver to my head.
“A ghostly woman in the fog,” Harlan Lewis summarized coldly. “You don’t need police. You need an exorcist.” He chuckled, the small crowd joining in. “Look, we’ve searched the perimeter-”
“Then, search the beach! The marsh!” I argued. “She’s out there somewhere, and she’s in trouble. She was convulsing, Lewis. Her lips were blue and her pulse was racing. She needs help!”
“Women in acute medical distress don’t get up and walk away,” he stated, more for the crowd than for me. Lewis and I had had our run-ins before. He’d been the first to accuse me of murder when I arrived in Tipee, and even though the culprits in the crime ring were either dead or in prison and Lewis witnessed the shoot-out at Mavis Chambers’ house, he still suspected me. Of what, I don’t know.
“Then, maybe she didn’t,” I suggested. “Maybe whoever she was running from caught up with her. Either way, she’s out there and she needs help.”
“Yes! Yes!” Delores Kenning raved, busting through the crowd while she pet her mink.
“You saw her, too?” I asked.
“I saw a body!” she declared. Her eyes were wide and buggy, making her look just as crazy as her reputation claimed. “Demons came out from the parking lot and stuffed that body in the trunk!”
“What trunk?” Lewis prodded.
“What demons?” Clara chuckled.
“I saw ‘em,” Delores continued, waving her hands in the air like an actress on a stage. I cringed. “When I went home to check on my cats, they were out there. Nothin’ but shadows and demon eyes, watchin’. They stuffed the body in the trunk.”
Jason Kent eased his arm around Delores and smiled. “You take your pills today, Delores?”
“I saw ‘em!” she insisted. “Demons are all ‘round this place. They trample through the woods and over my rose bushes. They knock over my garden gnomes and upset my kitty-cats. The dead spirits sometimes scare ‘em away, but mostly they just linger, lookin’ for trouble where they can find it.”
I buried my head in my hands, praying this woman would stop helping. I’d been arguing the same points for the last hour, when it had become clear to everyone, but me and Delores, that there was no woman to find. When the rapid searches ended fruitlessly, the whispers started, and spread like the sea smoke, reaching through the group with its misty fingers.
What also didn’t help matters was that I kept looking toward the lobby expecting Sam to walk through the doors and save me from all this madness. Uniforms had been coming and going since they arrived, but not him. Where was he?
“Maybe she saw a ghost,” Charlotte suggested. “Miranda Kayne died in this house.”
“Or maybe she wasn’t gettin’ ‘nough attention at the party,” Marla Britt decided.
“The stress of a dyin’ business is ‘nough to make anyone a little touched,” Clara contributed.
“Touched? How ‘bout battier than hell,” Marla continued. “I hear she ain’t even been able to touch water or take a bath or…”
“How much have you had to drink, Ms. Duffy?” Lewis continued. Kent shuffled Delores off with one of his officers, and joined Lewis. The tie was now absent from his suit. As I glanced around the room, I realized that most people had disregarded the niceties once present during the party. Charlotte and Clara had removed their tiny hats. Marla Britt had quit hiking up her dress to cover her bosom, and just draped herself in a shawl. Rachel had left behind her flirty smile for an annoyed expression, matching her mother’s. The clock over the mantelpiece closed in on 1:00 a.m.
“I had a drink, one drink,” I answered, deciding it was best not to mention that the one drink had made me feel warm and slightly tipsy. “I’m perfectly lucid. Haven’t I earned some credibility here?”
“Yes, but,” Clara cooed, “let’s face it, you ain’t been quite right lately.” Turning to Jason Kent, Clara explained, “My sweet niece hasn’t been herself since well, since ever, but her recent criminal entanglements have exasperated her problems, along with the woes of her failin’ business.”
“It’s not failing,” I tried, “just sputtering, a little. Besides, none of that has anything to do with this. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes or my head. I saw a woman out there who was suffering from some kind of serious attack. She was older than me, maybe late thirties, early forties judging by the crow’s feet around her eyes. Heavy make-up. Kinky, curly red hair, long. Blue lips. Dark eyes. Skin-tight white dress, short, dirty. No shoes. No jewelry that I saw. The number four written on her forehead-”
“A tattoo?” Kent questioned.
�
��No. Marker, like written on her head,” I continued. “I admit, she did freak me out a little at first. She looked ghostly. But, when I saw her close-up, she looked rather… well, a bit-”
“What?” Kent urged.
“Um, slutty,” I answered.
“Oh, Delilah, don’t use that word. Tacky,” Clara chastised. “Say virginally challenged.”
Kent rolled his eyes, and told the guests, “Unless you’re a witness, go home. We have your names, and can contact you if we need to. Go on.”
Jason Kent had just earned my instant respect, and I sat up taller on my barstool. Grudgingly the crowd meandered toward the lobby, whispering and complaining, but the empty room was worth the commotion. Now, only Kent, Lewis, a few uniforms, Hugh Huntley, Chris and Lucius Kayne remained in a loose circle around me. Where was Sam?
“Is there anything else you can recall about her?” Kent went on.
I replayed it in my mind, and said, “Yes. She smelled like sweet cigarettes or cigars maybe. And she kept saying hide.”
“Hide?” Jason Kent repeated. “Like someone was following her?”
“That’s what I thought, but I didn’t see anyone else. Of course, I couldn’t see too far in the fog. There could have been someone there,” I reasoned. “She was scared, trembling. Her eyes kept rolling back in her head.” The memory made me shiver.
“Ms. Duffy, where are your shoes?” Kent asked pointing to my bare feet.
“I kicked them off when I fell down the stairs,” I explained, pointing to the bruise on my shin. “I left them where I found her.”
“Anyone find her shoes?” Kent turned to Lewis and the uniforms only to receive shrugs and head shakes.
“Well, that clinches it,” I insisted. “The girl didn’t just walk away. She was taken away, and whoever did it, thought my shoes were hers, and took them, too. It proves-”
“Nothing!” Lewis chimed in abruptly. “It proves nothing.”
“Well, if it doesn’t prove that I’m telling the truth, then it at least proves that you and your officers couldn’t find a needle in a stack of needles! My shoes were real! I wore them! Witnesses can confirm it-”
“I touched one of them,” Chris cut in, half-smiling.
“So what?” Lewis demanded.
“So, the missing shoes prove that someone was there,” I struggled, “and woman or no woman, he or she snatched my heels!”
“Giving a false report is a criminal offense,” Lewis returned quickly, mustache twitching. “That is a class one misdemeanor, Ms. Duffy. There was no girl. This is just your sad attempt to ruin the Kayne’s party, and turn all eyes on you, the way you like it, and make the police look like idiots.”
“You certainly don’t need any help from me, Lewis,” I smirked. Chris laughed. Kent yanked Lewis aside. Meanwhile, the uniforms, who I guessed were waiting for orders, shook their heads and chuckled.
“Lewis is right. This missy’s just cryin’ wolf,” one said to the other.
“Cryin’ ghost,” the other corrected.
“Just like Backwoods Buddy and his lost load.” The two fell into laughter. I had no idea who Buddy was, but I guessed it wasn’t a good thing to be compared to him.
The other one cocked his head, and whispered ineffectually, “Teague’s got his hands full with this one.” I would’ve argued, but I couldn’t.
I eyeballed the front doors, and spotted Officer Trey Williams, Sam’s partner, but not Sam. While the police debated my sanity, I cut through the group and met Williams at the ballroom entrance. Williams was tall, dark-skinned, bald, and wore a silver goatee that made him look both cool and serious.
“Williams, where’s Sam? I’ve been waiting-”
“Not workin’ tonight,” he answered, as if I should have known. My shoulders fell along with my mouth.
“Not working?” I repeated dumbly. “But, you’re here. You’re partners, aren’t you?”
Williams shrugged. “Said he had something to do.” Williams joined the other officers and left the building, leaving me stupefied.
I moved back over to my barstool, more to steady myself than rejoin any discussions.
Chris hedged between Kent and Lewis. “The grounds are extensive. The woman could have easily wandered to the beach or the marshes, even in a catatonic state-”
“How about you stick to science, and you let me handle the police work, okay Kayne?” Lewis said, a forced smile on his face. I was glad to see that he was difficult with others, not just me.
Chris went on, undaunted, “A woman in medical distress on these grounds at night in thick fog, it’s no wonder that you can’t find her. And that’s much more likely than a perfectly lucid woman concocting such an outlandish story. So, the likely scenario is that there is a woman out there who needs help.”
“Kayne’s right. Extend the search,” Kent ordered Lewis, and then turning to the rest of the group, perhaps to prove that he had heard everything, added, “Whether we find wolves or ghosts or women in white, we have to take every cry seriously.”
Chapter Eight
Four
In Buddhism, there are four noble truths, all having to do with suffering. The Bible has four gospels, four points on a cross, and four horsemen of the apocalypse. There are four seasons, four sides to a square, four directions on a map, and four types of human blood. The heart has four chambers, the mouth four wisdom teeth. There are four states of matter. Earth, air, fire and water make up the four elements. Four temperaments. Four humors. Four strings on a violin. Four-letter words are said to be bad, though I say them often, while rounding four bases makes a run and a grand slam is four runs off one hit. In the Asian world, four is unlucky because it stands for death.
4. The number imprinted on that woman’s forehead was now branded into my brain. Why 4? What did it mean?
I slammed my hand against the Jeep’s steering wheel. What difference did it make? The numbers that really mattered were 4, for the hours spent searching, 12, for the number of acres covered, 15, for the number of officers involved in the sweep and 0, for the number of weird spastic ladies found. The number of times Sam would be teased for having a psycho girlfriend, countless.
And coincidentally, four things bothered me: the missing redhead, TIBA’s tauntings, my pesky panic attacks, and where was Sam?
Sam and I have been together, officially, for 46 days. I count it from the day I realized that no matter how messed up my life was, he had managed to squeak into the number one spot in my priorities. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Forty-six days ago, I told him how I felt, and we followed it up with the most romantic boat ride of my life. He let me drive.
Sam likes to count it from the day I moved to Tipee Island because he says he knew the moment he saw me again that he loved me. His math would put us at 63 days.
Still, our love feels as comfortable and deep as the day we both fell into it, and that would put it at something like fourteen years and two weeks. Except for God, my family and books, that’s the longest I’ve loved anything.
Whatever the count really is, I’ve learned a few things about Sam Teague. He’s annoyingly tidy, competitive, and stubborn. He calls rap music modern poetry (sneer) and doesn’t read anything but sports statistics and Sunday comics (tear). He gets jealous at the drop of a hat, plays video games, and can eat or drink anything (and does) with absolutely no consequences to his stomach, waist, or face (I bloat, expand, and break out if I even look at sweets or junk food. But, hey, that’s the way God made me so I don’t obsess over it). Sam has little ambition, except maybe (hopefully) when it comes to me.
Still, he can turn me to mush with a smile, has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and usually knows exactly what I need or what I’m thinking, unless, of course, it’s about some stupid, nerdy fact like where the expression “head over heels” comes from.
“Head over heels” doesn’t make much sense if you picture it. Our heads are usually over our heels, unless you’re a circus performer or ser
iously deformed. Originally, the phrase was “heels over head”, like a cartwheel, which makes more sense for an expression that means helpless or out of control. In the 1800’s, the phrase did its own cartwheel, and also took on a new meaning: that beautiful, crazy, upside-down feeling called love.
However backwards, the phrase fits. It describes exactly how I feel about Sam. And until the last few weeks, our romance has been rather “heels over head.”
Everything about us was lovely and strange. I was wrapped up tightly in the most intimate relationship of my life, and we’d yet to be intimate, at least by normal standards. While in the Delilah Duffy manual of life, emotional intimacy trumped the physical kind any day of the week, even I was ready to tear my hair out for the dinosaur-sized tension that had built between us. After all we’d been through – fourteen difficult years apart but dreaming of each other, a reunion that uncovered the truth, and almost losing each other again when I was nearly killed twice – you’d think we would have made up for lost time with a dizzying marathon of togetherness. But, no. I was all for it. Sam held back.
And now, this. In the last 46 days, I’d known exactly where he was all the time. I knew his work schedule, and I pretty much filled up the spaces in between, along with his sickeningly disciplined jogging and surfing routines. I wasn’t a stalker girlfriend, determined to account for every minute of his time, but knowing his routines had become well, normal, just as he knew mine. Sam should have been at work tonight. And for a girl who’d had men treat her heart like a soccer ball, kicking it around without picking it up, I was anxious to hear his explanation.
Willie groaned when I came home. He didn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night. I sat on the floor next to him and cuddled him closely. “What’s up with Sam?” I asked him. I suspected that Willie knew the answers to all of my questions, but simply lacked the ability to share them. I had to ask anyway, just in case.
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